Wordless
by MetaphoricallySane
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' Johnlock half-slash, half-fluff. When Sherlock gets jealous, John knows just what to do.


**Wordless**

SherlockxJohn

(BBC Sherlock)

"I want to try something."

John looked up from his paper, almost nervous, almost excited, mostly just confused. Sherlock hadn't spoken for hours, locked in front of his laptop screen with eyes blurring over. "Excuse me?" John asked for clarification.

Sherlock just lifted the laptop away from him and placed it on the table. He stared into John the way he always did, their eyes bound together like they were seeing into each other's souls. What unnerved John was the sly smirk Sherlock wore at a slant, the glint of mystery in the back of his eyes, the way his curls were just perfectly tousled, begging to be touched. In fact, posture alone made John shiver a little – weight on one leg, slender, strong hip slightly thrust outwards, shoulders relaxed but expectant.

John was no idiot. He dropped his laptop and walked over to Sherlock, feeling a little stupid in the way he craved the man. He needed to feel him, to kiss him, to taste him.

But he found those sleek violin fingers held out in front of him. Sherlock shook his head as his free hand popped the top button of his deep purple shirt. John gulped. The detective just raised his eyebrows, as though waiting for a question.

John really didn't have any. He wasn't thinking straight – which made perfect sense in the situation in more than one connotation. "I… uh…" he stammered, desperate just to grab Sherlock and throw him to the ground there and then. Damn, he regretted wearing such tight jeans…

"I want to try something," Sherlock repeated, this time slower, enunciating every letter, murmuring in his deep, silken voice till John bit his lower lip. Sherlock tightened his hands into John's hair, holding him still while John shut his eyes and took a breath.

"W-what?" John asked, unable to stop his nervous stammer. "What is it you want to… try…"

Sherlock grazed his lips on John's. "Don't talk. Keep absolutely quiet."

"Absolutely? Sherlock that's impossible if we're going to-"

"Shut up," Sherlock commanded, nipping at John's lips before kissing him strongly, savouring the feel of skin on skin, winding his hands around John's blonde strands. John's lips were always so soft, so delicate, so delightfully agile… Sherlock couldn't resist. He drew in, bit, licked, tasted, entwined, sucked and felt John's tongue hot and frantic against his own.

The doctor's natural animal instincts flooded back as he fought to quench his lust like an unending thirst for the man before him, scratching his nails on Sherlock's neck as he pulled himself closer, trembling at every touch but still unsure of what was going on, or even if he cared. Sherlock's experiment wouldn't be as simple as to stay quiet. There was a catch. Something that would make him want to be not only loud but unable to control that urge. Something that would blow his mind.

Something he couldn't object to.

John found all his fantasies and wildest imaginations flooding into one-another as some kind of explosive sexual desire that was continuously hardening in his crotch, and he couldn't concentrate on fear at all. Sherlock could do anything he liked to him. In fact, he would beg him to do just that.

Dragging on the sleeves of his jumper, Sherlock tugged him into the hallway, painfully resisting his need to push John back to a wall and rip his clothes off as he stumbled up the stairs, but he knew he could not, and threw him into his bedroom. He pushed him to the bed, the whole time John unable to object in any way, and not wanting to either. He stared up at his partner, shaking slightly, biting his tongue to keep patient.

Sherlock was quick to undress himself. He stared down at John, emotionless, for a long time, watching John's anxious gaze shifting and locking and then flitting away nervously. The detective kept one hand behind his back, holding on tight. He would freely admit that he didn't want to do this. Perhaps it was only the mind of a man who knew too much that would need to experiment this. Perhaps he was a psychopath.

Well, he'd test that.

His hand was steady as he raised the gun, angled at John's chest. John instantly backed off a little, more in shock than anything else. He didn't understand. He wasn't shaking anymore, but he felt his heart cracking open from his rapid pulse.

"Remember. Don't speak."

John gulped. _What the fuck is this? _he cursed. _He wouldn't… No… He couldn't. I know you, Sherlock. I know you._

"Look into my eyes, John."

He did, and felt a smile twitch on his lips – maybe it was fear, maybe denial, maybe because he was relieved at what he saw. He saw a promise. He saw Sherlock, scared. John began to understand, to piece together the paranoia that plagued his partner.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked, his voice trembling, terrified of what the answer might be.

John just stood up, gently put his gun around the muzzle, and lowered the gun. He looked deep into Sherlock's eyes. _So this is what you worry about. _Perhaps jealousy was a bad thing, but it proved that the "heartless" man really did care for him, and it touched John deeply to see his dependency on John.

The gun he could have done without.

He stroked his hand around Sherlock's cheek, ruffling his fingertips into his raven curls and pulling himself to his toes to kiss him delicately on the lips. Sherlock was trembling slightly; his lips seemed surprised and unprepared, and for a moment he kept his eyes open, watching John so close to him and truly feeling alive. He shut his eyes to enjoy it. It felt like trust, like hope, like love.

John took Sherlock's hands and wove their fingers into one another's, holding him close, and pressing into him until they felt each other's heartbeats, strong and in perfect rhythm with life.

Sherlock dropped the gun, leant John back to the bed and gently cradled him down, crawling on top of him without losing contact for even a millisecond. He pulled down John's trousers, ran his hands along his thighs, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his neck, his chest…

John let his shirt lay limp on his shoulders as Sherlock smoothed his fingers over the scar. He was always fascinated by it, but not in a way of science – but in a way of sorrow. John did not regret being shot: it had brought him to find his soulmate. The pain had all been worth it to be here, now.

Caressing Sherlock's defined hips, he arced up towards him, gracefully kissing his cheeks and nuzzling into his neck. He didn't need to say anything. Sherlock understood.

They stayed there all night, kissing, cuddling, touching. Not once did they say a word or make a sound, but their hearts were singing in harmony, filled with trust and security. Nothing else mattered. It was them against the world.

In the morning they didn't wake up, just lay tangled together, peaceful, dreaming, and finally perfect.


End file.
